I woke up Wednesday feeling disoriented. I woke up today realizing exactly where I am: facing a vast crevasse that affects us all. This is our common ground. This is the turf we share. No matter which side we are on, this rupture unites us now, as Americans. And we must fight to fix it.

It does little good for any one of us to tell another, “Come join me on this side of the divide.” In 20-some years of journalism, I know that preaching one’s politics changes nothing. But listening, and finding the words to help others do the same, is the only possible path toward change. The only way to eliminate our divisions.

A few years back, I made three separate trips to Azerbaijan, a former Soviet republic, which is now an independent, oil-rich country on the Caspian Sea. I’ve been thinking of that place all week. I went there to teach local journalists how to craft narrative stories, and how to write proposals for grants.

The capital of Azerbaijan, Baku, sits on the sea. The city is an island of prosperity in a nation of need. I remember my first glimpse of The Wall—or, more accurately, The Walls—long, serpentine barriers, cleaving the city into disparate parts. The government built these walls to separate views of sightly and unsightly things. I was told that people call it “The Wall of Happiness.” It’s what you see when you travel from the airport to the city center. It’s what you see when you travel along the shore. On the sightly side are skyscrapers and beautiful new walking malls, parks and outdoor cafés, and the construction site of a giant tower that bears the familiar name of Trump. On the unwanted side are slums and old neighborhoods, and the people who inhabit these crumbling homes, amid wrecking crews prepared for massive demolitions.

Every day, I went to class and learned the stories of my students. They were all working journalists in a country whose government despises them. I learned of women smacked down in the streets. I learned of men beaten to a pulp, imprisoned, tortured. I learned of husbands whose wives were threatened with violence just because these men go to work and write. And I learned of curfews and whispers, and climates of anxiety in which everyone—journalists and all citizens alike—feared speaking to friends in public because someone was always listening, watching, waiting for missteps against the regime. I had one student who slept in the building where our classes took place because he could not walk the streets freely. He sought refuge in my workshop. That building was the only place in Baku where he said he felt safe.

I write these things today because this is what happens in a country that divides its people and shutters its press. And it’s not just Azerbaijan; it is everywhere journalists work in fear. Donald Trump campaigned on pledges to abolish press freedom. He has already blocked reporters’ access to his first political meetings as president-elect. Watchdog organizations call our new leader an enemy “unlike any we have seen in modern presidential history.” This is a grave danger to our future as a democratic society, no matter where we stand on our country’s divide today.

Last week, we saw Americans—our fellow Americans—selling and buying and wearing T-shirts condoning the lynching of journalists. “Rope. Tree. Journalist. Some assembly required.” We live in a world where reporting is disdained, where writers and photographers are killed for what they do. More than 1,200 journalists worldwide have died on the job in the past 25 years. Politics is the deadliest of all beats. Is this really the country we want? Have we really thought this through?

I have lived among many Americans who gripe about “the media.” I grew up with relatives who did (and do) the same—and often for rightful reasons. But the silencing of people and the press is a threat to all citizens, no matter which political side a person is on. There can be no flow of ideas, no informed citizenry, no right to democratic choice in a country that muzzles its own. This is why the freedoms to speak and write and assemble are so critical, our founders enshrined them in our Constitution.

There is a lot of talk this week about the many ways in which journalists failed in this campaign. I say we failed long before Trump and Clinton took to the stage, and we must do better. But we must maintain the right to continue our work without fear. We failed for years to cover the growing gaps between Americans, and the deepening resentments of families forgotten amid the rise of an extraordinarily minute elite. We relied on numbers and polls, but failed to put human experience and emotion into context. We offered data, when people needed explanations and stories to which they could relate.

America’s divisions have not surprised me, because I have seen them all my life. I grew up in sheltered suburbia, in a neighborhood of posh homes on the edge of one of America’s most violent and segregated cities. I have lived in a boom-and-bust coal mining town to which masses of jobseekers flock whenever the market offers a scintilla of hope. I have lived in a Northwest logging town, where families speak of the dead and dying mills that sustained their grandparents and parents—but not themselves or their children.

I live now just a few paces from a reservation line. The people who first dug this soil and watched this sky lived on this land centuries before others concocted absurd definitions of “native” and “immigrant.” My grandfather was an “illegal” all his American life. He was a European-born sailor who lived under the radar, in the American Midwest, for decades. But he was white, and so am I, and now, by biological luck alone, I have fewer worries than millions who fear the sociological consequences of skin color and human emotion.

As a journalist, I have spent most my career in places defined by division. And this is my greatest fear: that our American divisions will never heal. That our Walls of Happiness and Walls of Despair will grow higher with time. I have seen how a spark of malice can burn into an inferno of lasting destruction. That’s what happens in societies that hate and divide.

I’ve racked my brain this week wondering if we, as Americans, can repair the ruptures already in place. We are so different, it often seems. And yet, when I write stories about people, their lives and loves, their joys and fears, I find allies across my Facebook feed—among the left and right, liberal and conservative, foreign and domestic. It is human emotion that unites. It is connection to human commonalities.

So that is what I will try to do, from here forth. I will try to get up each morning and write not about the ways Trump can and will affect the climate—but how his policies affect people. Not about the Trump approach to international aid—but how that approach shapes the refugee dinner table. Not about gender equality in Trump’s new world—but about individual women as they live their lives, feeling the same human emotions each and every one of us experiences in one context or another.

]]>http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?feed=rss2&p=57290http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5729Joyce’s Peanutshttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ramblingspoon/GoeF/~3/QiY-0obrsrw/
http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5719#respondThu, 29 Sep 2016 22:50:47 +0000http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5719[…]]]>Juru Joyce is a South Sudanese vendor who sells beans and peanuts at the market in Adjumani town, in northern Uganda. I’ve come to talk with her specifically about those peanuts. As some of you know, I have spent the past couple of weeks in Uganda, on an IWMF fellowship to report on the South Sudanese refugee crisis. The situation has overwhelmed Uganda’s refugee settlements since fighting flared in July. And during my time reporting here, I have learned that a common food is central to this cross-border story: peanut paste, a.k.a. peanut butter. Everyone eats it, if they can. If they are lucky enough to have it (many recent refugees don’t have money to buy it, and it’s not part of the rations they receive in the settlements). Peanut paste is a key ingredient in so many dishes eaten by Ugandans and Sudanese alike. It’s a symbol of unity, and also of the losses suffered in war. So I go to Joyce with questions in mind. When I step up to her stall, I don’t expect the story she reveals—though I am not surprised. I’ve heard a lot in the past two weeks.

In 1991, Joyce fled warfare in her homeland, seeking refuge across the border in northern Uganda. Like thousands of others, she lived for years in a Ugandan refugee settlement until one stormy night in 2004. That night, she suffered a blow like no other. Soldiers of the Lord’s Resistance Army raided her settlement, kidnapping children to be swept into their notorious war machine. Joyce fled to the bushes and survived. But the LRA captured her kids, and those of her brother and neighbor—10 in all. She has heard or seen nothing of them since. After that, Joyce says, she wanted nothing to do with a refugee settlement ever again. So she moved to Adjumani town and struggled to make a business. With the help of a charity, she was able to start selling beans and peanuts in the market. And she earns enough money now to eat three meals a day.

More than 1 million South Sudanese refugees are now living in neighboring countries; 185,000 of those have arrived since July. Every day, thousands more arrive at the border. In just two days last week, 6,715 refugees crossed from South Sudan to Uganda. 6,715 in two days! The UNHCR is drastically short of funds for this crisis, and the World Food Program has had to cut rations for anyone but the newest and most vulnerable recipients. The newest refugees receive hot meals of porridge in the morning, and posho (maize) with beans in the afternoon. Those living in settlements currently receive rations of sorghum, maize, fortified corn/soy blend (CSB), and oil and salt if it is available. Time and again, when I ask refugees about food, they tell me how much they miss, and how much they need—for flavor, for nutrition—the peanut paste they no longer have.

The stories I hear from refugees are heartbreaking. One day, during a rare break on the ground, I sit with an IWMF administrator at the entrance to Nyumanzi transit center, where thousands of new arrivals camp in tents while awaiting transfer to a settlement. My colleague (who is not a journalist) remarks how difficult it is to insert herself into someone else’s life and story, asking questions and taking pictures. She wonders how it felt as a journalist. I tell her yes, it is difficult, but I stop taking pictures when people say no, and I don’t force an interview on someone who doesn’t want it. There is also a flip side to the perceived intrusion. I tell her about the many times I have worked on stories involving people with tragic histories and NGOs trying to help them. And I tell her that often, NGOs aim to protect their “clients’” privacy by keeping journalists away (or regulating how interviews are conducted). The right to privacy is a legitimate right. But so is the right to free speech. And I tell her that I often find people really want to share their stories—even after NGOs or authorities try to prevent them. They want an audience. They want people to know what they have endured. And they want someone to listen because no one ever has. That right—that need—deserves just as much respect as the right to keep a story private.

To all the South Sudanese and Ugandans who have shared their lives with me this month, I thank you. I hope your words will reach many eyes and ears, and people who want to listen.

]]>http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?feed=rss2&p=57190http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5719Will GMOs feed the world? Did anyone ask the hungry?http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ramblingspoon/GoeF/~3/exiAD49NF0w/
http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5709#respondWed, 03 Aug 2016 00:50:22 +0000http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5709[…]]]>Thi Thi Oo harvests mustard greens on her land in Shan State, Myanmar, where most villagers spend their entire lives working the farm. Consequently, locals say, “the land is tired.” As families grow, they divide their farmlands among children and grandchildren. So much intensive farming has led to pests, poor harvests and over-use of pesticides. But the nearest markets are many hours away by trail or train, and locals grow almost everything they eat. For decades under the previous military junta, villagers had little access to the outside world. Elders say they don’t know how they will grow enough to support themselves and their cattle in the future, yet villagers of all ages say they prefer a rural subsistence life and want to continue farming on their ancestral lands.

For the past many years, I have spent a good lot of my time as a journalist looking at hunger, malnutrition and the future of food. And for the past many years, I have consistently found a disturbing trend: For all the energy society devotes to questions about feeding our future world, rarely are hungry people part of the conversation.

We’ve heard endless debates about GMOs, their safety and the controversies over labeling. We’ve read about agricultural technologies and new hopes for greater yields that will feed the planet’s growing population. And we’ve seen these stories accompanied by images of farmers (typically brown-skinned, dirt poor and nameless) or faceless mothers or unidentified masses of people in need. Rarely are those people quoted in the stories about them. When we as a society debate how to “feed the future,” those debates are invariably framed by the scientists, analysts, experts, writers, researchers and policymakers who speak for and about all those masses of people in need.

And so, for the past several years, I’ve made a point of asking the people I interview in the field what they think about food, the future and their greatest needs. What works, what doesn’t and why. And I have learned that a lack of food alone does not cause hunger and malnutrition; it’s everything that stands between food and the people who need it. Politics, economics, environment, education, infrastructure, tradition, gender, religion, power, conflict—they all determine when, whether and how people eat. It is not enough to produce more food or devise new ways of doing so. Successful strategies must address and incorporate all of the above. And hungry people must participate in the conversation.

Earlier this spring, we followed a bomb clearance team working high in the mountains near the Lao/Vietnam border. We all camped in tents

pitched inside a village schoolhouse that offered shelter from the wind, rain, cold, and critters outside. One rudimentary room with a stellar view served as the camp kitchen. Cooking took place over a fire on the floor in the corner,

and on chilly nights we gathered around the flames to keep warm. Bathing took place at a communal spigot across the schoolyard. On many misty evenings, the mere the thought of a shower brought shivers of dread.

But the days always turned sunny as the team set to work, back and forth with detectors across fields

with flowering coffee plants

and crimson pineapples. This work happens every day across Laos: teams searching for old US bombs rusting in the earth, 40 years after the airplanes dropped them. This particular team was hired by American Jim Harris, founder of the nonprofit We Help War Victims, commissioned by the NGO CARE to clear agricultural fields in this remote area so that villagers can finally—finally—work the land safely and maybe—just maybe—plant cash crops for the first time in decades.

The team worked all day, then headed back to camp for a wash, a rest, and dinner.

We all ate Lao-style, communally, dipping little balls of sticky rice into the day’s offerings of soups, stews, salads, and

chile pastes that lit the mouth with heat, filled the nostrils with fragrance, and warmed the insides with all the freshness that makes a Lao meal. I took note of everything we ate the entire time we camped with the bomb clearance team. Today, that food diary is posted on my blog, The Human Palate, over at SAPIENS. Have a look if you want to know more.

(And stay tuned for Part 2 on eating forest meat….)

(And check out the rest of SAPIENS, if you haven’t already, for a look into the world of anthropology today.)

So it happens like this: you’re wandering the street in a country you just entered in a town where you’ve just arrived, marveling at how this place has grown in the years since you’ve last seen it. You barely recognize a thing. You come to a corner café, and you see the hair, familiar hair. But you can’t see the face. Eyes in a book or a magazine. Something in print. Your husband spots the bike. It’s not the same bike, but it’s something he’d drive.

Is that him? I ask.

Your husband steps inside, into the aisle of tables. The man looks up, split second of a blank stare, then shock and smiles.

This is a guy you met in another country umpteen years ago, you and he and everyone working together in the same small circle of journalists in a tiny universe of expats helping locals through the news cycle in a country after war (that was theory; reality was, locals knew way more than you did). You have never seen this man in your home country, or his. You have never seen him since in the country where you met. But every few years, by chance, you see him like this. Somewhere on Earth. Somewhere on the street. Alone. Drinking a beer, reading a book, eating good food.

The three of you plan to meet for dinner the next night. You suggest Indian, arrive a few minutes early, order a masala papad. It’s smothered in onion and ketchup. Ketchup is so not right. You suggest an alternative for dinner when he arrives. You head back to the restaurant where you and your husband ate the night before, because it was so good, because it had no ketchup where ketchup doesn’t belong. It’s the blue-light restaurant on the river, Christmas lights strung through bamboo.

You order a repeat, plus extra beer. It comes: the whole grilled fish, skin peeled back, white meaty flesh. Sticky rice in tiny baskets. Papaya salad with just the right balance of spice and tang, fish and juice and crunch. It comes with baby long bean pods, cabbage and greens. It’s mixed with peanuts, tender red tomatoes, little green eggplants and bright yellow bulbs thick in skin but plump and sweet inside with miniscule seeds—a local fruit, something in the Solanaceae family, something of a mix between eggplant and tomato, if you can imagine. There are thin rice paper wrappers and a bowl of water for soaking. There is lettuce and cabbage, mint and local leaves. There is a plate of rice noodles, chiles, shallots, lime slices, lemongrass, little stalks of tart mango, shreds of garlic. Sweet tamarind dips for dunking. Rich, roasted, smokey, spicy chile jaeow for lovers of heat.

All of this. You sit for hours. You finish half the fish. He carves out the bones. You all eat more. You talk about countries you’ve seen grow and change. Development, corruption, coups, enigmas. Logging, despite the laws. Forests razed, plantations grown. Education lacking. Armies still in control. Futures the same as they ever were. He tells you about places he’s found, little towns perfect for doing nothing. Nothing but watching the river flow by.

A wind whips hard through the frangipani trees, still the season of chills. You pay ($12 for all!), you go. Maybe you’ll see him tomorrow for another beer, or the next day in a town farther south. Maybe you’ll see him another year, in another country, on another river sipping another beer, watching another sunset, somewhere on this wild random Earth.

]]>http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?feed=rss2&p=56791http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5679And the Happy New Year Winner Is…http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ramblingspoon/GoeF/~3/j1FszOFH8Us/
http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5671#commentsFri, 01 Jan 2016 20:21:29 +0000http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5671[…]]]>Forrest C. of New Mexico! We did a blind drawing the other day. Thanks to all who participated in the blog giveaway, and especially for sharing your stories of food & family, friends & memories. You can read some of those here – recollections of canning tomatoes and picking olives, Christmas dinner and Vietnamese hot sauce, and the connections we make between cooking, family, friends and love.

On this New Year’s Day, I wish everyone happiness, good health, zest for life and living, unending inspiration and the means to enjoy it all. May we always have enough to eat, of the foods we love, but not so much that we forget gratitude. Happy 2016! And thank you for coming here.

By the way, the drink above is not a New Year’s cocktail. It’s an energizing juice we drink regularly in this house, inspired by our many travels through countries where food is inherently recognized for its healing powers. This is the drink that frequently starts our day, and it’s the drink we take in extra quantities if ever we feel the slightest bit off-kilter (or when we know we’ve been exposed to coughing, sneezing, shivering human beings). Maybe it’s just the drink you want on this New Year’s Day? (Feeling a little hung over?) Fresh lemon, ginger, turmeric, pepper and a touch of honey—that’s it. Cultures across the globe have long consumed ginger and turmeric not only for their color and flavor, but their antioxidant and illness-fighting properties too. Western researchers are only just beginning to study the science of eating practices that date back thousands of years. Studies show that it’s actually rather difficult for the body to take advantage of turmeric’s health benefits when eaten alone because it is quickly metabolized in the liver and intestinal wall. BUT combining turmeric with piperine (peppercorns) enhances our ability to absorb the medicinal benefits of curcumin (the key component of turmeric).

So this is what we do for the juice: peel then dice or smash a little ginger and turmeric (an inch or so of each, enough for two 8-ounce glasses). If you don’t have fresh turmeric, powdered is fine. Divide the ginger and turmeric between two glasses, squeeze a quarter lemon into each glass, then add several good cranks of the pepper grinder to each. (This morning we used Kampot red pepper, a fairly rare variety that results when berries are left to turn red on the vine before they are picked and sun-dried). Add hot boiling water to fill the glass. Drizzle with honey and drink.

]]>http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?feed=rss2&p=56712http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5671‘Tis the Season for a Giveawayhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ramblingspoon/GoeF/~3/sZDO4rwqbu0/
http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5639#commentsWed, 16 Dec 2015 18:35:25 +0000http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5639[…]]]>“It begins in the wild, in the tangled rainforests of Central America, where leopards roam and parrots screech. The world is wet, the air is thick and the ground is mud. My boots sink into the sucking, slurping bog, and all around it’s green. Everywhere, everything: a chaotic maze of vegetation in every shade of emerald, jade and lime. It’s a beautiful visual monotony, broken by a single, distinctive smell.

His fingers aim and his head nods the way, but still: all I see is a cacophony of green.

“It’s hard when you don’t know,” he says, and I don’t. I am not native to the jungles of southern Belize, as he is. “But when you know, then you come straight here.” He whacks his machete through dense reeds and vines. Then he reaches high and grabs. “That’s the vanilla!”

And now I see: vines with thick, stout stems clinging to trunks, branches, logs and leaves. They twist and circle and loop through the air, creeping upward, spreading between trees.

“You see? It’s wild!”

The vines hold tiny camouflaged blooms, just beginning to emerge, no bigger than the tip of my pinky. We are early; but in another month, Jorge says, the buds will pop with flowers—orchids—which, in turn, produce the world’s most coveted beans….

__________________________

So begins our journey into the ancient Maya forests, on the hunt for wild vanilla. The whole story appears in the newly released Sabor Journal. Do you know about it? It’s more than a magazine, it’s 186 pages of keepsake culinary lit. It’s glossy, sleek and stylish. But you should take a look for yourself. I’ve been working with founding editor Fermin Albert for a few years now as he makes his dream publication real (it started in print, then went digital, and now it’s back to print in a totally new way).

It’s the season of giving, so I’ve decided to host

MY FIRST BLOG GIVEAWAY!

The winner will get three things: a copy of Sabor Journal (courtesy of Fermin), a copy of Best Food Writing 2015 (courtesy of Da Capo Press) and a jar of home-grown cornmeal (courtesy of my mother-in-law, Jenny Redfern).

Here’s what you have to do:

Message me your interest in participating (send an email, leave a comment here, use the contact page, or get in touch through Facebook).

Tell me one quick story, just a sentence or two (think: tweet length). Since it’s the season of peace, and our world hasn’t had enough of it lately, I’d like to hear how food brings peace and love to your life. It can be a memory or a tradition, a dish or an anecdote. I’ll include some of those stories in an upcoming post.

Deadline: Thursday, Dec. 24. I’ll do a random drawing and announce the winner around the 1st of the year.

Now, for more details on those prizes:

PRIZE #1: The all-new Sabor Journal, Arbiter of All Things Gastronomic, proof “the world really does need another food mag” (according to AIGA); full of “solid stories, great photographs of food, vibrant illustrations…” (as noted in Eye Magazine); the sum of “what magazines and the art of storytelling and design are all about: the fervor of one’s dream,” (so says Samir Husni, Mr. Magazine). From cover to cover, you’ll get:

So, bring it on! Let’s hear your stories and I’ll get your name into the hat. Happy holidays.

]]>http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?feed=rss2&p=56397http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5639#GivingTuesday – A Few Suggestionshttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ramblingspoon/GoeF/~3/Q5LcXvONgZk/
http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5609#respondTue, 01 Dec 2015 14:00:37 +0000http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5609[…]]]>People want to help. Always. This is the message we get every time we return from a trip overseas: people sincerely care, they want to help, they want to make a difference, but they don’t know where to begin.
The setting sun in Oecusse, East Timor.

Today, on the international day of giving, we’d like to offer a few friendly suggestions based on the people we met and the projects we saw last month in East Timor/Timor Leste. No matter your interests (public health? women’s health? education? sports? environment?) there is room to give to the Timorese people. There are good people doing great work, and never a shortage of need. (Quick history: East Timor was a Portuguese colony for 450 years before Indonesian forces invaded in 1975, with a nod from the United States. The occupation lasted 24 years and more than 200,000 Timorese people died. It was one of the most brutal histories of the 20th century. In 1999 the people voted for freedom, and East Timor became the independent country of Timor Leste in 2002. It remains one of the world’s least developed countries. But it is free.)

Offerings at a home altar in Aileu.

If you find yourself with a few extra dollars to spend, have a look at the list below. Even if you don’t have a few extra dollars, many of these groups would greatly appreciate your help in another form: volunteer, spread the word, share your knowledge. Timor Leste is such a small country, it craves a little attention. I guarantee, there is ample gratitude on the other side of giving:

Bairo Pite Clinic (public healthcare, women’s health). Dr. Daniel Murphy, an Iowa native, has dedicated his services—for free—to the Timorese people since 1999. In that time, the clinic has grown to include daily consultations for hundreds of patients (“Dr. Dan,” as he is known to thousands around the country, sees about 200 a day; nearly 1.1 million people in the past 16 years), 55 in-patient beds, a malnutrition program, tuberculosis ward, grassroots training programs for rural birth assistants, TB outreach services, and much more. The toughest part about budgeting, Dr. Dan says, is covering the costs of daily survival—electricity, supplies, staff salaries and all the little expenses that add up to the full cost of keeping a health clinic afloat. Every dollar helps. Give here.

Plan International (education, women’s leadership, early child development). We’ve seen Plan at work in other countries. This is a group that’s all about boosting a child’s opportunities in life… and that covers a lot of ground. We visited a Plan project that focuses on early education through playgroups in rural schools. We also interviewed several women involved in a program to put more Timorese women into elected positions—at the local level (just 2 percent of local leaders right now are women). Give here.

Kids from a PLAN school program line up to see the Prime Minister in Aileu.

WithOneSeed (environment, sustainability, agriculture, education). This is just one piece of a multi-faceted program based on a simple idea: planting trees and planting ideas. WithOneSeed helps subsistence farmers plant new trees on deforested land, paying each farmer a carbon offset price per living tree. More than 40,000 trees have been planted so far. Meanwhile, partner organization WithOneBean creates a stable, fair-trade market for local subsistence coffee growers. WithOnePlanet is the education arm of the whole shebang, teaching communities across Timor Leste and Australia about climate change and the environmental challenges of the future. Give here.

HIAM Health (malnutrition, food security, child and maternal health). This much-needed local NGO tackles hunger and malnutrition in the garden. It aims to educate families about nutrition, giving them the tools to grow their own food for a balanced diet. Today, many Timorese families do not lack food—but they do lack the knowledge or cultural resources for families to eat healthy, nutritious meals. Rice is often widely available, and many families fill up on this one starchy grain. Missing are the diversity of key nutrients needed for long-term health. Give here.

Mercy Corps (food security, sustainable agriculture, environment, economic development). This is another group that wears many hats, working in rural communities (where 80 percent of the population relies on subsistence agriculture). MercyCorps not only helps farmers with improved techniques and storage, for example, but also works on the economic side of things—savings and loan programs, access to markets, jobs. Here’s something I really like about this group: Country Director Joanna Walshe has a background in anthropology. That means she looks carefully at the cultural reasons why a program does or does not work. Is the fish pond too far from the house? Do women have enough say in the family or village to make critical program decisions? What are the real barriers to a healthy diet? These are the complex sorts of questions Walshe is constantly asking. Give here.

SportImpact (sports, human development). This group runs athletic workshops in rural areas, encouraging Timorese people in the farthest reaches of the country to organize their own sporting events and make their own equipment using local materials (water bottles, cardboard, wood, scraps). Not only do these programs promote health through activity, but they build confidence and inspire young Timorese to create the future they want—without waiting for the government or an NGO to do it. This is a key concept that would be useful in many post-conflict countries, where the long-time presence of aid can create a dependency syndrome.

Seeds of Life (agriculture, sustainability, environment, economic development). Working within the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries, this initiative helps local farmer co-ops build a national seed production system that will supply farmers across the country long into the future. These seeds are open-pollinated and naturally selected high-quality, high-yielding varieties (no GMOs) of rice, maize, peanuts, cassava and sweet potato that were bred specifically to deal with local conditions in a changing climate. And they taste good, too—that’s key to making these crops succeed. In the past, the government had to import hundreds of tons of seeds each year just to meet farmer demands. This program aims to end that, replacing imports with biologically diverse and locally grown varieties. Seeds of Life also works on improved storage techniques. The initiative’s slogan: “Food security begins with seed security.” Get in touch here.

Bags of Seeds of Life maize at a farmers’ co-op in a village in Liquica.

Marie Stopes (women’s health, sexual and reproductive health). Statistics have improved greatly since independence, but East Timor still faces some of the world’s greatest challenges in infant and maternal mortality. Many rural residents walk hours to the nearest clinic. Women have on average six children in a lifetime, but many have no access to doctors or midwives. Contraception can be hard to find. Marie Stopes aims to fill this gap, working with the Ministry of Health to ensure all women have the reproductive services they need. Give here.

World Neighbors (water and sanitation, agriculture, food security, health and more). This Oklahoma-based organization works in the remote enclave of Oecusse, a hard-to-reach district surrounded by Indonesia and the sea. There is no regular flight service. Getting to Oecusse from the rest of East Timor requires a (fairly expensive by local standards) 4-hour fast ferry ride, a grueling overnight ferry (which locals and foreigners alike told us never ever to do) or a drive through Indonesia. And Oecusse itself is largely cut off from… everything. Aside from the main town along the coast, almost no roads exist throughout the district (or the roads are so bad that no one drives them). Locals walk hours up and down the mountains—for health care, supplies, jobs, and anything else that people need. Give here.

ETAN (human rights, democracy, news). The East Timor and Indonesia Action Network promotes human rights, justice and independence for Timorese people. It also maintains a thorough email news list, providing subscribers with information on East Timor, Australia and the region that otherwise can’t be found easily. Give here.

]]>http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?feed=rss2&p=56090http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5609Beyond Terrorhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ramblingspoon/GoeF/~3/l54eyea2q88/
http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5598#respondTue, 24 Nov 2015 14:30:51 +0000http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/?p=5598[…]]]>Happy Thanksgiving week. As some of you know, we recently returned to the US after a month of reporting in Timor-Leste, followed by a week of working in Singapore. A few nights ago, I awoke sleepless and jetlagged 3 a.m. I grabbed a pen and notebook, went to the living room and started writing about terrorism and this world we all share:

Just a few of the many flavors and histories of Singapore: (clockwise from top left) curried fish, Chinese bean curd, Malaysian curry plate, laksa, sour fish tom yam soup, coffee.

_______________________

When I learned of the blasts in Beirut, I was in transit from Singapore to Dallas, and I caught blips of the story at airport stops along the way. When I heard about Paris, I was home. I was driving around Albuquerque in a jetlagged fog, angling between Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods, aiming to restock the fridge after six weeks away. I was thinking about the remainder of my shopping list—cilantro, ginger, dish soap—as NPR aired the shocked and somber voices of those on the ground.

Just the day before, Jerry and I had left our hotel in Singapore and taxied through a neighborhood predominated by Muslims and Chinese. Next door was a popular 24-hour food court where we ate a handful of meals the previous week. Customers gathered all hours of the day and night, drinking sweet tea and chatting across bright orange tables bordering a busy street. Worlds and cultures converged on that corner, united by food. Side-by-side vendors sold Chinese fish noodle soup, laksa, mee goring and nasi campur. Women in headscarves ate among others in shorts.

That food court was a lesson in tolerance, and so was the clientele. Looking back now, just a few days later, it is eerie to recall the conversations Jerry and I shared in Singapore about the level of deference that city upholds. Singapore: a hub of capitalistic consumerism, born of ethnic mix and a history riddled with violence. Diversity isn’t a mere aspiration or meme in Singapore, it’s the core of national identity. (The people are predominantly Chinese with substantial populations of Malays, Indians and Eurasians.) Sitting strategically at the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula, this island has long drawn from from cultures across the globe. Through the centuries, it shifted hands among early kings, British colonizers and Japanese forces. For a short time, it was part of Malaysia before separating in 1965, following race riots and crippling political strife. Peace and stability came with high prices. Founding father Lee Kuan Yew, who governed from 1959 until 1990, aimed for economic progress combined with multicultural co-existence. But he was roundly denounced for his policies suppressing free speech and political opposition. Lee, who died earlier this year at the age of 91, was a dominant force; he saw no other way toward economic prosperity and peaceful co-habitation of the island’s disparate groups.

Day to day, on Singapore’s sidewalks, in its offices and shops, there is a palpable respect for others. Restaurant windows post notices: “No pork, no lard.” Street signs are written in English, Mandarin, Malay and Tamil. These accommodations reflect an understanding of diverse needs and views. More importantly, they reflect a willingness to accept the differences that make Singapore what it is. Many argue the country’s policies don’t go far enough. Some debate whether the city is “truly multicultural” or simply tolerant of multiple races and ethnicities. Regardless, it’s a start. In an age when the twin fears of terrorism and immigration trigger intolerance worldwide, we could all use a little more acceptance, a lot less condemnation. We could all strive for peaceful co-habitation.

Singapore faces, Singapore cultures

The day after leaving Singapore, I sat in a Whole Foods parking lot checking my phone. I read the first message from a Facebook friend in France. “What happened today in Paris is a horror, but we are safe….” As I drove south toward home, the horizon turned a brilliant scarlet as the mountains painted deep, dark silhouettes against a starry sky. I listened to more NPR. It was, of course, the biggest story of the day, and again the next.

And then a backlash began with social media critiques on personal grief. Let us not forget other victims in under-covered places, many implored; let us not diminish the agony of Paris, others insisted.

We are all just trying to relate. As human beings, that is what we do. That is how we form our understanding of the world. For the millions of us lucky to have escaped terrorism in our homes and in our own little circles, we empathize through the experience of others. We feel through the small connections we can make with people and places we know. This is how we grasp for comprehension. This is where the inspiration to make a better world begins.

***

As I listened to reports from Paris, I thought of the people I’d met in Timor-Leste in the month before I traveled to Singapore. Timor-Leste, formerly known as East Timor, is a tiny half-island nation still reeling from its own years of terror, working hard now to build an independent identity. I was there when the bombings in Turkey occurred last month. (How many bombings can the world take in a month?)

Now, this month of November marks 500 years since the Portuguese landed on Timor Island and established a colony on the eastern end of the Indonesian archipelago, a region rich with oil and timber. The Portuguese kept their hold on Timor until 1975 following a coup in Lisbon. Nine days after Timorese revolutionary leaders declared independence from Portugal, Indonesia invaded with an OK from US President Gerald Ford and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger. This was right after the Vietnam War. It was a time when the fear of communism dictated geopolitical maneuvers, and the prospects of natural resources shaped international policy—as they do today.

For 24 years, the Timorese people lived under a brutal occupation, which led to the deaths of some 200,000 people—a third of the population back then. In the early years, Indonesian forces bombed the interior of the island from land, sea and air. Thousands of civilians fled their villages to the mountains, where they camped in caves.

Mana Leo atop the mountain where she and her family hid during the Indonesian years. She is hugging Paul, a local village kid who admires her greatly. Mana Leo, a principal, encourages Paul to stay in school.

Just a couple of weeks ago, just a couple of weeks before Beirut and Paris and Nigeria and Mali, I hiked through with a lovely woman named Leopoldina Guterres, known as “Mana Leo.” We climbed a steep mountain where she and her family hid during the raids. She was 7 years old when the terror began. She carried her newborn sister at her hip while her mother searched for food.

For years, Mana Leo and her family, like many, ate whatever they could find: wild beans, dried potatoes, roots and tubers. Indonesians shot thousands of Timorese. Many more died of starvation and thirst. Small graveyards are scattered across the mountain today—red crosses mark those who died fighting; white crosses denote many more who died of disease and hunger. “Sometimes seven, eight people in one family died,” Mana Leo told me. Sometimes children and parents died on the same day. There wasn’t time or means to bury them all.

These are the memories that shaped Mana Leo’s childhood, and these are the memories she still carries today. From Timor to Paris, Beirut to Kenya, Syria to Iraq and far beyond, millions of memories are imprinted in bloodstained shirts and the blistered feet of treacherous marches toward freedom and peace.

Jerry and I spent four weeks crisscrossing Timor-Leste to report on health and development. We heard stories like Mana Leo’s again and again. In 1999, the Timorese people were granted the right to vote in a referendum, and they overwhelmingly chose independence. Indonesian-backed militias retaliated in a rampage of rapes, massacres and fires that destroyed much of the country. The UN intervened, and Timor-Leste became fully independent in 2002. Thirteen years later, we find a hospitable, tolerant, forgiving, energetic population set on a better future despite the scars of its past.

I thought of Mana Leo last week in Singapore, as I threaded my way through a society evolved from its own historical scars. And I have thought of Mana Leo every day since the Beirut and Paris attacks. Forty years later, the memory of terror still brings tears to Mana Leo’s eyes, but she is alive.

In fact, she is more alive than ever. She is a grade school principal, the manager of a reforestation project and the mother of a house that feeds and shelters 20 neighbors and relatives entrusted to her care. Mana Leo can never bring back the dead. But she can make her world a better place than the departed ever had a chance to see.

Surviving the past has given Mana Leo an unbridled will to live in peace. And that will for peace may well be the final triumph over terror.

Jerry and I lived for several years in Roseburg. He worked at the local paper, The News-Review, while I went to graduate school up the road in Eugene. It’s sickening to hear what happened yesterday. That is not the Roseburg I knew.

Some of the best friends in life we found in Roseburg. Most of us have since gone our various ways, but the town remains in memory the spot where these friendships began, and grew. (And Roseburg is not nearly as tiny or detached as many national news reports, I think, are making it to be.)

We spent our weekends outdoors, as often as possible. We hiked the 79-mile North Umpqua Trail, through old-growth forests and alongside waters where steelhead spawn. We reported and photographed that trek for a five-part series that ran in The News-Review.

I grew my first herb garden on a tiny patch of dirt along the side of our rental house on a steep hill. We used to walk down that hill all the time, toward McMenamin’s Roseburg Station, meeting good friends for beers. On sunny days, we’d sit outside on the patio, grateful for clear skies.

I trained for two marathons in Roseburg, running long miles into the countryside, often in a drizzle. But the air smelled so fresh, so green, in way that happens only in forests. Then I’d get home and jump in the hot shower and relieve myself from the chill.

Jerry and I married on a ranch on a river in the hills nearby. Guests stayed in cabins, and we danced until late at night. We had kegs of Red Hook and local wine. We roasted a pig and told the caterers what we wanted them to make: corn, beans, olive salsa and so much more. We ordered nine different cakes from a local bakery called Tomaselli’s.

Umpqua Community College gave me my first teaching jobs. I spent part of a summer helping kids create their own newspaper, and later in the year, I taught Southeast Asian cooking classes to adults. I remember spending hours in the area’s Asian groceries, searching for the obscure ingredients I needed; then more hours in the kitchen prepping dishes. I wasn’t paid for all those hours, but I did it because I wanted to share what I knew—and the class greeted me each week with so much enthusiasm. I miss those days. I miss having all those hours to cook for people who were so interested.

One of the recipes I taught was tapioca. Many people don’t like tapioca, or they think they don’t like tapioca. But this one has coconut milk and mint, and sometimes fruit. It’s mild and gentle, calm and cool. Several months back, here in New Mexico, I took it to a Sunday brunch—a regular get-together started by an exceptionally generous host who opens his doors once a month to crowds of people. We eat salmon, drink coffee and talk. The tapioca was a hit, shared with strangers, and it was the impetus for new conversation. And it makes me think: what a way to symbolize peace.

I posted the recipe a few years ago, and I’m going to offer it again today. It’s simple but rich, a little bit sweet and full of comfort. And sometimes that’s just the thing we all need.

Method:
Rinse the tapioca pearls under cold water and drain well. Pour into a saucepan with water, sugar and salt, and bring to a boil. Stir constantly (the tapioca burns easily on the bottom of the pan) and cook until tapioca pearls turn translucent. I have found the cooking time varies dramatically depending on the type and size of tapioca as well as altitude. You’ll know it’s done when the liquid is absorbed and the tapioca has become gelatinous while still maintaining some of the pearls’ shape. Taste, remove from heat and stir in coconut milk. Let cool until the mixture is firm. Top with fruit, mint and sesame seeds. Serve chilled or at room temperature.